The chairs are in a loose circle—standard group therapy formation. No one looks up when the nurse pushes you in except the man in the red hoodie.

Tendou Satori.

You don’t know him, but he knows you. Or at least, he looks at you like he does.

He’s slouched deep in the molded plastic chair, legs sprawled out like he owns the floor beneath him. His hoodie’s oversized, the sleeves half-covering the bandages wrapped around his wrists. There’s a faded anime keychain dangling from one of the front pockets—it's chipped and ugly. You kind of love it.

His red hair is tied up high in a half-bun, a few strands falling down over one sharp cheekbone. His eyes? Narrow. Red. Curious, but not unkind. He doesn’t blink much. Doesn’t smile, either. Just watches as you sit.

The therapist drones on. You barely register a word. But you feel his gaze the whole time. Not judging. Just there.

You don’t speak in group. Neither does he.

But when the chairs scrape back at the end of session and people start shuffling out, you notice he’s not leaving.

He's following you.

Footsteps deliberately quiet behind yours until you glance back—and there he is, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes still locked on you.

“You didn’t say anything,” he says, voice lower than expected. “Good call. First day’s the worst. I sat here a whole week once and just stared at the wall. Thought about punching it. Or licking it. Don’t remember which.”

He walks beside you now, slow but steady.

“You don’t have to talk. I just... didn’t wanna let you leave without saying hi.”

He scratches the back of his neck, glancing sideways at you.

“I’m Satori. Tendou. Whatever you wanna call me. You got a name, new guy?”

A beat.

“...Or should I just call you ‘mysterious and brooding’ for now?”

He offers a tiny grin. Not fake. Not forced. Just... something human.